


Unlucky

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [21]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, you know.  For a bone that’s been shattered into about a dozen pieces and is going to need multiple surgeries after which I'll probably limp for <i>life</i>, it's doing just great.  Stellar.  Top notch."  Matt scoops up a forkful of mushy green beans and grimaces. "Thanks for asking."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unlucky

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt "U" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z Challenge
> 
> * * *

Some guys have all the luck.

Take the Warlock. Not only is he a super genius, but his old man kicks it when he's ten and leaves him and his mom with the house free and clear and a nice hefty insurance policy so the dude doesn't have to work a day in his goddamn life. Not that a guy's father passing away would normally be a good thing, but from everything he's heard Mr. Kaludis was a pisspot who got lousy with his fists on a regular basis and nobody shed a tear when that gas main blew and took him with it, least of all his widow and only child.

Then there's guys like him. The unlucky ones.

Granted, his own grey matter is nothing to be embarrassed about. And no, his father never touched him. Hell, he can't even remember ever getting a hug. What his father _did_ do is kick him out of the house exactly one week after he graduated high school, with a backpack of clothes, a couple hundred in cash, and the immortal words "I've done right by you, but now you're an adult and you can make your own way in the world, and I'm not having a faggot for a son." 

A real class act, his father.

He's been struggling to get by since then, 'cause there is no fucking way he's going to sell out and wear a suit and tow the establishment line and kowtow to bastards like Apple and IBM. And when he finally, _finally_ lands a paycheque that might give him enough ready cash to move out of his shitty walk-up and into a place where there are no multi-legged unpaid tenants sharing his living quarters, John McClane comes along and fucks it all up.

All right. Maybe it's more Thomas Gabriel's fault. Maybe John McClane is actually the guy who saved his ass about sixteen times. But McClane is the dude who's lying in the hospital bed next to him, so he gets to bear the brunt of the anger and frustration. 

"How's the shin, kid?" McClane asks.

"Oh, you know. For a bone that’s been shattered into about a dozen pieces and is going to need multiple surgeries after which I'll probably limp for _life_ , it's doing just great. Stellar. Top notch." Matt scoops up a forkful of mushy green beans and grimaces. "Thanks for asking."

Oh, right. McClane gets to bear the brunt of the sarcasm, too.

"Jesus, don't let all that positive attitude knock ya out over there." 

McClane shifts on the bed, and though Matt deliberately doesn't look over he can tell from the sharp intake of breath that McClane's pulled something in his shoulder again. Because even though he's been told innumerable times that he has to stay immobilized or _risk permanent injury_ , McClane's been untucking his arm from the overhead sling and wandering around the room more often than the nurses. 

Not that Matt cares. At all.

"I'm a realist, okay?" Matt says. "Fact: I need several surgeries to repair the damage caused when a bullet _ripped through my leg_. Fact: after that -- _if_ all the surgeries are successful – I'm going to need crutches to walk before I graduate, oh lucky me, to a cane. Fact: I will most likely never regain full mobility in my leg. Fact: I am fucked six ways to Sunday!"

"Sure ya are," McClane says, "if you keep thinking like that." 

" _Thinking_ has nothing to do with it!" Matt says. He barely stops himself from throwing up his hands, because the nurses have already scolded him twice about food ending up on the floor due to his 'overly animated discussions'. He sets the fork carefully down onto his tray next to the congealing mess of a beef pot pie before turning to face McClane.

And yup, just like the figured, the dude has maneuvered his arm out of the sling and is sitting on the edge of his bed. Most people just look scrawny and pathetic in those pale blue hospital gowns, but somehow McClane still pulls off all beefy and burly. Not even the plaid pajama bottoms ruins the effect. The fabric stretches taut across his pecs and hugs his biceps, which of course only reminds Matt of exactly what it was like to have those arms wrapped around him. Okay, it was to protect him from a hail of automatic machine gun fire, but he has absolutely no problem imagining a myriad of different scenarios in which he's in a clinch with John McClane.

Not that he lies in his hospital bed at night and listens to McClane snoring in the bed beside him and imagines them. Because he doesn't.

"Thinking is reactionary," he says now. "It's based on emotion. We believe we're being objective, but how we feel always factors into the equation. Studies have shown that human beings can never fully separate their emotions from their analyses, no matter how much they think they are! But facts are… FACTS. They're not arbitrary. And the fact is—"

"The fact is," McClane interrupts, "you sure as fuck like to hear yourself talk."

"The fact is," Matt continues, "I lost my apartment, my gear, my bank account, and probably the use of my leg! I'm gonna be homeless, but … oh right, there's still the chance that I may get _arrested_ for my part in the fire sale, so if I'm lucky I'll be able to live in a nice comfy prison cell with a roommate named Butch. That's called being _realistic_ , McClane."

"You really are the life of the party, kid," McClane says. 

He pushes up from the bed with barely a wince and crosses the room, while Matt stares down at his own trussed up limb and tries not to be jealous of the dude with two working legs. Also, focusing on the pulleys holding his leg immobile means that he doesn't have to think about how robust McClane still looks even after getting shot in the shoulder or speculate about that little bit of tattoo he can see peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his hospital gown. He doesn't have to look at John McClane at all, and he most certainly doesn't have to wonder what it would be like to push his hands under the hem of that gown and feel McClane's stomach muscles clench beneath his palms.

When McClane comes over to lean against his bedrail, Matt glances up at him and doesn't wonder so much that he fists his hands and kind of stops breathing for a second.

"Ever try lookin' for the silver lining, Matt?"

"Since when did you become the poster boy for positivity?" Matt asks. "What happened to 'you get divorced, you eat all your meals alone, blah blah being a hero sucks ass'?" 

McClane lifts his unhurt shoulder in a semi-shrug. "Maybe I just realized that something good comes out of everything." 

Matt shakes his head. "Tell me one good thing that came out of this whole misadventure, McClane. I dare you."

"One good thing?"

"Just one. One positive thing."

McClane grins. "You got the guy."

"Huh? You OD on the morphine or something there, McClane, because I have no idea what that—" The touch of McClane's lips against his stills the rest of his sentence. He has a brief moment of panic, because a. what the hell? And b. he has imagined kissing John McClane about eight thousand times in the past four days and it can't actually be coming true, and c. _what the actual hell?_ His shock keeps him motionless for long enough that he can sense that moment when McClane thinks he's made a big mistake, and then his panic switches from _what the hell_ to _oh god I'm going to fuck this up_ and he throws himself into the kiss with gusto. There's a little grunt of surprise on McClane's part and then he's kissing back with equal enthusiasm, and when his palm finds McClane's stomach it quivers almost exactly like he thought it would.

When they pull apart McClane rests his forehead against his and that cocky smirk he remembers from their crazy days on the run is back. Matt can't even fault him for it, because he's pretty sure he's wearing a shit-eating grin of his own.

"That," he says, "is one hell of a silver lining, McClane."

"Glad you approve," McClane says. He pulls back enough to put some space between them. "Know this great little pizza place called Gianetti's," he says. "When you get outta here…"

"Yes," Matt says quickly enough that McClane laughs. Then he frowns down at his leg, waves a hand toward the trussed up knee. "As long as you don't mind—"

"Hell, I'll carry ya if I have to, kid," McClane says.

Matt smiles, settles back against the pillow as McClane makes his way back to his own bed and sets about maneuvering his arm back into the sling. Matt bites his lip, torn between pestering him about not obeying the doctor's orders or just letting him do his own thing. On the one hand, he's got a vested interest in McClane gaining full health if he's going to be dating the guy. On the other hand… well, if McClane stays in bed like he's supposed to they won't be able to kiss again for days and days and _days_. 

He'll think about it later. Right now he's just going to lie here quietly and think about how damn lucky he is.


End file.
